


Hands

by Mally (notcryingonsundays)



Series: Jack [2]
Category: jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Death, Death, Hands, M/M, i am angst trash #1, super duper angst, woot woot sadness amirite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:42:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcryingonsundays/pseuds/Mally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Jack's hands, Mark realized, were a thing of beauty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WoefulWriters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoefulWriters/gifts).



> yoooo another sadfic  
> can i get a what what
> 
> special thanks to WoefulWriters for suggesting i make a series of sadfics  
> you da bomb diggity  
> <3

Jack’s hands, Mark realized, were a thing of beauty.

They were warm. They were smooth. They were familiar. They were strong. They had been burnt by stovetops and cracked by the cold and bloodied by (long ago) razor blades until Mark had persuaded him to stop. They had swung by his sides as he walked. They had clenched into fists in anger and in sadness. They had held pencils and newspapers and food and good books and toothbrushes and morning cups of coffee and computers and so many other things. Never umbrellas. Jack hated using umbrellas; instead, he’d dance in the rain ahead of Mark while the latter laughed and shook his head.

Jack’s hands had brushed hair out of eyes and tears off of cheeks. They had flipped pancakes and pulled trays of half-burnt cookies out of ovens. They had scribbled notes in class and doodled in notebook margins. They had sketched scenery and painted portraits. They had flown across keyboards, typing messages to people far and wide. They had bumped against the backs of Mark’s hands, then intertwined fingers together and squeezed. They had looped around waists and settled softly on shoulders. They had touched cheeks and hips and stomachs and lips. They had traced soft lines on bare backs and dug into skin. They had scrubbed shampoo into hair and wiped steam off of mirrors. They had been concealed in woollen mittens and cute little sweater paws. They had covered a shocked mouth and shaken as a shining ring was slid onto the fourth finger of the left one. They had held Mark’s hands as their lives were sealed into one bright future stretching out before them, glimmering with possibility.

Jack’s hands had supported the heads of newborn babies. They had been there to catch a baby falling from a highchair. They had held a camera, documenting a toddler taking their first wobbly steps. They had taken temperatures, real and pretend. They had held long hair away from faces and rubbed shaking backs as feverish children gagged on their half-digested dinners. They had carefully piped icing and positioned candles on birthday cakes. They had ruffled hair and hugged crying children and gently smoothed bandages onto scraped knees. They had tugged hats onto heads and zipped up puffy winter coats and pulled on boots and untangled knots in ratty shoelaces. They had swung giggling girls high into the air and waved at smiling boys boarding a bright yellow school bus. They had been outstretched to happy children running straight for him, backpacks dangling from little-kid fists. They had pushed laughing kids on swings and reached for crying ones stuck in trees. They had twirled little ballerinas around the kitchen. They had wrestled with little John Cena wannabes in the living room. They had built towering skyscrapers with building blocks. They had played video games until three in the morning. They had created worlds of endless possibilities. They had loved and had been loved, for so many years.

Jack’s hands had once been Mark’s entire world. Mark had loved those hands, cherished them, never let them leave his side. Now he was forced to watch them disappear for good behind a heavy oak lid and be lowered slowly into a freshly dug hole in the ground, as two half-grown children sobbed into his black shirt. Mark closed his eyes. He thought he could almost feel Jack's hands ghosting across the backs of his own hands, gentle fingers running up his chest and through his hair, sliding across his stomach and around his waist. The way Jack used to every morning.

Jack’s hands were beautiful. Mark missed them already.


End file.
